


The Day Bleeds

by dojimasqueen



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Heavy Angst, anyways this IMPLIES feelings between the two, temari is mentioned only in thought and through text messages, that last one is iffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dojimasqueen/pseuds/dojimasqueen
Summary: How can a man reject the one he loves and deal with his demons alone when all she wants to do is help him? Set somewhere during those two years Shikamaru pulled away from Temari.





	The Day Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a minute since I've written any Shikatema. Though this is more of implied feelings between the two than anything. I'd like to thank my dear friend drowninglinguists for writing the final text Temari sends him in the fic. Hope to get in the groove of writing these two, again. Hope you enjoy.

Thumbs hover over the digital screen of a cellphone, moving back and forth as the mind they belong to contemplates his actions. They tap at letters across the miniature keyboard, forming one word—hey—before holding down the backspace. The word vanishes, and he is free to start over. _Tack, tack, tack_, this time, forming a half-completed sentence. _The last Union meeting— _No, not good enough. Start over.

_Rokudaime-sama mentioned Kazekage-sama—_

No, dammit. Delete. Start again.

_When will you—_

Awful. Terrible. Start _over_.

_I miss you_.

His thumb hovers over the blue send button, eyes burning a hole into the screen of his device. The caret flashes rhythmically beside the end of his sentence, mocking him. _Send it_, it seems to tell him, _send it, and watch her ignore you. Watch her _laugh_ at you. Watch her tell you that you aren’t _good enough.

His thumb presses down on the backspace, deleting his message. He closes out of the application, puts his phone in a digital slumber, and sets it face down on the tabletop.

“Oh, good,” a familiar voice mocks excitement. “Now that you’re back in reality, how about helping me with dinner?”

Lifting his gaze, her meets the back of his mother. She stands at an empty counterspace, placing vegetables on an old, wooden chopping board. She cuts them in an expert manner, managing to keep the width of each slice fairly similar. Over her shoulder, Yoshino offers a convincible smile to her only son. It’s for his benefit, he knows, but he can see past her façade. The unbearable sadness she carries on her shoulders is evident in her brown eyes. She longs for her husband, as he longs for his father, but nothing can bring him back.

With his phone forgotten, he pushes himself from the table and rises to his feet. His presence is enough to move Yoshino to the stove, positioning a pan atop a burner and turning up the heat. “All this new technology,” she shakes her head. “All you ever do is bury your head in that stupid thing. Are you playing a game of some sort? Is that why it’s glued to your hand?”

“No.” Truth be told, he has a shougi game installed, though it’s rarely used. He spends the majority of his time in his messaging application, reading over nearly year-old text messages between him and someone he used to call a friend. He takes over the cutting of the vegetables, placing them in their own bowls for Yoshino to quickly access.

The retired kunoichi sighs. “You are at that age…” she comments, though he doesn’t understand. As she throws the onion into the pan, she glances at her son. “I know you can access the internet on these things. Are you spending your time watching porn?”

“What!?” His face is warm, ears red. “Kaa-chan—”

“It’s _okay_ if you are, but can’t you do that in your bedroom and not the kitchen? Honestly, Shikamaru, have some decency.”

“I’m _not_ watching porn!” In his embarrassment, the knife slips from his grasp and nicks the tip of his index finger. “Ow! Shit!”

Yoshino gasps, motherly instincts kicking in. As Shikamaru drops the knife and cradles his injured finger, the Nara Clan matriarch ushers the young man into the downstairs bathroom. She drops to her knees and rummages frantically through the cabinet beneath the sink. “Honestly, Shikamaru—ah, here we go!” She pulls a first-aid kit from behind an unopened box of tampons and stands straight. Before opening the kit, she grabs Shikamaru’s wrist and tugs. “You didn’t sever the fingertip, thankfully, but you _did_ cut yourself pretty deep. Sit on the toilet. I’ll clean and bandage it for you.”

He does as he’s told, chewing the inside of his cheek in an effort to ignore the stabbing pain at his fingertip. “I don’t watch porn, Kaa-chan.” Not _exactly_ what one wants to say while being tended to by their mother, but it’s the only other thing on his mind. The only other thing except…

“I know.” And she does. Call it a mother’s intuition, but Yoshino knows her son isn’t the porn-watching type. “It was a joke, dear. Honestly, you ought to lighten up. What’s gotten into you?”

_Lots of things. _He shrugs his shoulders. _Neji. Tou-san. The unbearable thought of my best-friend never returning my feelings. _“Nothing.”

He can tell his mother isn’t buying it. “You’ve been absorbed in your phone for the past week.” Without warning, hydrogen peroxide is poured over his cut. He hisses in protest. “Is something bothering you?”

“Yeah, the pain in my finger.”

Dabbing the injury with a piece of gauze, Yoshino looks at her son pointedly. “Aside from that, Shikamaru.”

“I said nothing.”

The sound of a band-aid being unpackaged fills the silence, echoing off of the bathroom’s close walls. His mother wraps the band-aid around his finger, patting his shoulder once finished. “I know _something_ is bothering you, Shikamaru, and I just wish you would tell me _what_.” A sigh escapes her, and Shikamaru shifts his weight uncomfortably.

“There’s _nothing_ bothering me.”

He knows she doesn’t buy it.

She gathers up the emptied contents of the first-aid kit and begins packing them away. “It’s your father, isn’t it?”

He drops his hand to his side, the white bandage with kunai print sticking out like a sore thumb. The mention of his father triggers something in the young clan head’s brain. A lump forms in his throat, tears well in his eyes, his palms begin to sweat… He hasn’t discussed the death of his father in what feels like months, when, in reality, it’s been _days_. It’s been days since he’s shed tears over the man who used to pat his head when he came home from work, making a beeline for his wife to plant a kiss on her lips. They hadn’t the best relationship growing up, but Nara Shikaku began making a change as the war approached. His death left Shikamaru longing for the future the two could have shared. Perhaps he could have led the clan better with further instruction from his father. Perhaps the old man could have provided words of wisdom regarding the feelings his son harbors for one of his closest friends. Perhaps the eighteen-year-old genius could have finally beaten the forty-three-year-old at game of shougi…

“No.” _Yes, and so much more._

Yoshino abandons the first-aid kit to grip her too-tall-son’s shoulder. With pain in her eyes—her mask finally removed—she observes him. “The tears and the way your voice is quivering tell me otherwise.”

He can’t burden his mother with the depression stirring within him, he just _can’t_. She’s a _grieving widow_, a woman who already masks her emotions for the sake of her teenage son. She is the pillar of this small family, just as she always has been, but Shikamaru must act as _her_ pillar in these trying times.

So, he digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands and blinks back his tears. “I’m actually not that hungry,” he sniffles. “I think I’m gonna go to my room.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he pushes past his mother and retreats through the bathroom door. In an instant, he’s gone, retrieving his phone from the kitchen and hauling himself upstairs. He closes the door behind him upon entering his bedroom and flops on the bed. He unlocks his phone and opens his messaging application, thumb clicking the message thread under the name _Temari_. He aimlessly scrolls, landing on a series of messages dated three months ago and reads.

10:37 PM. Sent. _I’m not going to be able to have lunch after the meeting, tomorrow. Hokage-sama needs my portion of the paperwork ASAP._

10:37 PM. Received. _Never known you to not work _while_ having lunch. It’s really that urgent?_

10:38 PM. Sent. _Yeah. I plan to leave the following day, anyway. Rather have it all done to turn in when I get back._

10:40 PM. Received. _Okay, I guess. We can grab lunch next time._

He scrolls further, stopping on messages sent at the end of August, a little over two months ago.

12:00 PM. Received. _I’m here._

12:02 PM. Received. _Are you close?_

12:05 PM. Received. _Hello?_

12:08 PM. Sent. _I won’t be able to make it. Important meeting with the village elders. Hokage-sama needs me._

Further, he scrolls, thumb moving at a rapid pace. A cordial exchange here, a brief check-in there. He scrolls until he finds a wall of grey, separated by days in-between. The last message, dated October 21st, reads a simple _Shikamaru?_

His thumbs move on their own, tapping away at the keys on the screen. He writes, deletes, writes, deletes, then writes again. It’s an endless cycle, his thoughts running a hundred-meter dash with no clear winner.

_I need you._

Ultimately, he deletes the text and drops his phone beside him. It gets lost within a tangle of sheet and comforter.

_Ding!_

He scrambles, fighting with his bedding in an effort to find his device. In his haste, it is swallowed deeper, found only when he throws the bedding to the floor. His heart is in his throat, sweats beading at his brow. Did he accidentally send something to her? A portion of his last typed attempt at a message? A letter? A period? Had he royally _fucked up_?

He unlocks his phone with a touch of his thumb, immediately opening to his thread with the Suna kunoichi. He grits his teeth and holds his breath.

7:24 PM. Sent. _Look, I don't care that we'll never be more than friends, but you're killing yourself keeping those thoughts in your head. Let someone help you._

More than friends—all he _wants_ to be is more than friends with her. But what _good_ is he? How does he compare to a Suna shinobi? Suna no Temari is _beautiful_ and _strong_ and _everything he’s ever wanted_, with—probably—hundreds of guys knocking down her door. And he…

Nara Shikamaru is _fatherless_ and a _workaholic_ and _terrible _at maintaining friendships.

Nara Shikamaru is _terrified_ and _self-conscious_ and so damn sure he _isn’t good enough_ for the likes of the cruelest kunoichi.

His grip around the phone tightens, and his arm winds back. With immense force, Shikamaru throws his cellphone at the wall. The wall dents, his screen shatters.

He throws an arm over his eyes and clenches his jaw as the tears begin to fall.


End file.
